Atra Anglát Rïsa
by Vardus Libron-Dark God
Summary: This is a non-standard take on the war between the Empire  and the Varden .  It destroys your deeply cherished belief that the Varden are good and the Empire evil, but it says few good things about the Empire.  Includes a couple of Shades.  Review.Restart
1. Death is Life

Atra Anglát Rïsa

Disclaimer: I do not claim, possess, or own the Inheritance Cycle. Christopher Paoulini does, alas. If I did Shades would be Riders more often/sometimes/ for the first occasion. So this is not canon. Although, if Paoulini ever reads this I would be honored were he to use it. With some minor tweaks, of course, and credit. But moving on.

Authors note: As you may have gathered, this is a rather unusual take on the Varden. We have an annoying habit of heroizing organizations and powerful individuals. This is the de-heroized version. Yes, A&E, may include graphic and intense violence, psychotic Shades(including a real special one, he he he), graphic torture, mild to moderate language, and substance abuse. That about sums it up. Review please. Pretty please? First to review gets the story dedicated to them. Then the 1st, 2nd, 3rd, 5th, 8th, etc.(Fibonacci sequence, though by [insert deity here]'s sake I hate them) Plenty to come, ladies, gentlemen, and genderless beings. Grab a gallon of mead and let's get started!

Chapter 1

The morning sun played down upon the town, its reddish light bathing everything in a warm glow. It was spring. The forest was lush and vibrant, the birds flitting from branch to branch. It was a perfect day... for the crows. While the elements seemed determined to create an atmosphere of peace and serenity the vicious battle that was raging helped little. Dozens lay on the ground from either side. It was a fortified town called Teren in the path of the Varden. There was only one important thing about this town. That thing was its lord. He was a man with close ties to Galbatorix, one who had been utterly committed to the tyrant's cause. While there were others like this few had the number of powerful magicians on hand to actually draw attention.

All this Eragon wondered as he hacked through the swarms of soldiers who assailed him from every side. Beside him, to the right, Roran stood, striking left and right with his hammer. To his left was Arya, eviscerating some poor fool. The castle gate stood. Eragon muttered,"Jierda."

He stumbled, then kneeled. Something was strong. Very strong. He gasped. He couldn't breathe. Finally it broke. The gate shattered into several thousand pieces, sending splinters flying. Roran and Arya walked forwards cautiously. Eragon still lay upon the ground, panting. His blade, Brinsingr, was still gripped in his right hand. His armour was dented, and an arrow stuck in his side. He looked and marveled at the speed with which the casualties had mounted. He felt a gentle tug at his mind. It was Arya. They had found something unusual.

He stumbled forwards, barely able to stay on his feet. He slipped into the castle and turned. Arya was unusually pale, as was Roran. Roran frantically signaled for Eragon to speak. He yelled,"What is it?"

Roran slapped himself in the face, barely able to comprehend the utter stupidity of Eragon's misunderstanding of his frantic shushing motions. He looked around the corner and scrambled backwards. There were at least one hundred soldiers surrounding the lord.

The soldiers were unprepared for an assault from the seemingly unbreakable gate. The captain snarled an order. The soldier on the closest edge turned, but his spear was caught. He realized his mistake and tried to drop his blade, but the damage would still be done. With a satisfyingly meaty plop the man's head got a good look at his own feet. It was upright. One kick later the body knocked two others over. A flash of Brinsingr solved the problem of another two, and the fight began in earnest.

The twin forces collided. The red-armoured forms of the Loyalists contrasted greatly with the mud-brown the majority of the Varden wore. The warriors chopped and slashed, each knowing that were they to falter they all would die when the line collapsed. Eragon smashed through the enemy, dearly wishing Saphira was with him now. He wondered, as he dismembered a red-clad opponent, why these soldiers kept fighting . They were obviously doomed. Eragon twisted and impaled a soldier about to shish-kebab Arya. She nodded thanks and Eragon parried another frantic lunge, smiling.

With a final thunk the last of soldiers hit the ground dead. The lord crawled back, obviously terrified.

The human captain said,"The Varden will not harm yo-"

The lord sank back, a sword in his throat. Eragon spat on the corpse of the noble and sheathed his blade. The scum's blood ran freely down his body and to the ground. The captain gasped and drew back, appalled by the complete and utter mercilessness of the Rider. The man, if he could be called a man, only smiled a cruel smile and turned. Eragon made a mental note to get a new captain. This one had to many scruples.

He wondered where the magicians were. They tended not to be very strong, but who knew? He would find them and wipe them out. They were a threat to the Varden, and they had to be terminated. Arya walked beside him. They knew their job, and they knew why all of these monstrosities had to be destroyed. They had pioneered the men without pain. They were evil. They could not be allowed to live.

Author's note: So here it is, folks. Chapter one. I should have two done by Wednesday. They may be short, however they will get longer. Don't hurt me. Tell me if you like the idea. And yes, there are a few funny Shades. You'll met one soon. I promise. First to guess what is special gets a digital cookie, as does the person who guesses the subject of the next chapter. Best of luck. _**Read and review, people.**_


	2. And The Truth is Falsehood

Chapter Two:And The Truth is Falsehood

Authors note: I know. You are thinking,"Wow, that was short. Now I can ignore this and live in peace with simplistic conception of the Varden and Empire." Sorry. This should probably be in the same chapter, but I always like to switch chapters when switching perspectives. Moving on, here it is.

Seldane ran. He and the other magicians weren't cowards, but they weren't suicidal either, When you have an elf and a Rider after you one doesn't stick around. Behind him his old friend Kansh was lagging behind. The elf impaled him, and the Rider, laughing maniacally, beheaded him without breaking stride. His decapitated stump squirted blood like a geyser into the air, and vertebrae sparkled like pearls in red wine.

Speaking of wine, Seldane had a hangover. He had been at the feast, and, well, after the 12th glass he just couldn't remember. His head pounded like their was a monkey pounding on a bongo in his cranium. That damn lord was so idiotic he threw the feast after the breached the outer wall.

Seldane glanced back over his shoulder. His only defense, a necklace granted to him by Galbatorix, would probably protect him from even the strongest magical assault, but it was no help against a sword, and besides, there was only so much energy in the gem. His sword was strapped to his side, but in the time it would take to draw he would be dismembered. The only reason he had avoided a painful death was that he knew his way around better than most people due to his, ah, nocturnal excursions.

He also knew a way out. He turned left and drew his sword. The blade sliced through a window and he leapt free, falling twenty feet to a large roof. It almost broke his fall, but he continued until he hit the ground. In front of him stood three men armed with pikes.

"Thrysta," he muttered. One sailed through the air and, with an audible crack, smashed into the wall. The other two turned.

"Go to hell, dog. That was my pal."

"Jierda." Another screamed as the majority of the bones in his body were broken. His partner, however, struck. The pike stabbed through Seldane's abdomen. His response was a jab to the head of the Vardenian soldier. Seldane pulled the pike free, praying it wouldn't kill him.

"Waise heil."

His skin knitted back together. After the far too familiar crawling sensation faded he stood and jogged off. His enemies could arrive any second. He vaulted another window, crashing into the next roof hard. It was a short drop, but he fell badly and broke his leg. Cursing he tried to drag himself forwards. A foot impeded his progress and sent him sprawling backwards. He tried to scramble away but the Rider stepped with him.

"I saw what you did to those two. Not bad. Waise Heil. Now draw your blade. That's good. Now kill me."

Seldane saw his chance. He swung up, under the Rider's guard. His blow was about to connect when he felt a stinging pain in his chest. He looked down, dumbfounded. A blade projected from the approximate location of his heart. It was of elvish make. Arya walked over and stood next to Eragon as he died. With his last couple seconds he poured every ounce of energy he had into one word.

"Brinsingr."

The castle exploded. Half of the town went up in flame as the inferno raged. The burning wall consumed every ounce of material within its range.

Eragon and Arya clung to Saphira. The dragon's claw was hooked through their shirts, and they dangled uncomfortably. They looked in horror at the massive conflagration below as it ate the town they had conquered. They looked at each other, happy to have survived.

"Why didn't you just kill him quickly?"

"Sorry. Mistakes were made."


	3. And the Pain was Pleasure

Yet The Smile Was a Grimace, and The Grimace a Grin

Or Chapter three

Disclaimer:Read the first chapter already. It has one. I do not own the Inheritance cycle. Christopher Paulini does, etc.

Author's note: Thanks to the two who have reviewed. Armpit(yes that is his assumed name), you get this chapter dedicated to you. Congratulations.

Now to respond to the reviews.

Solangedrama: I know. That in fact is what I noticed while reading these. I also don't want to make the Empire seem perfect. In my view there is no "good" side. Both are organizations devoted to giving an individual of group of individuals power. This leads to a rather destructive, merciless conflict. Eragon, if you ask me, should not be portrayed as the selfless, foolishly kind person he is depicted as. Instead he has to become merciless. _**He is killing thousands of innocent people as they beg for mercy and they say he is a nice guy!**_ Thanks for the compliment. Oh, and you reviewed first, so you get the story dedication.

Armpit: I am happy to say that the Varden and Eragon are going to seem like corrupt bastards, so don't worry about that. However, the Empire is not perfect in my story. No, it is just as corrupt as the Varden, but the corruption centers around Galbatorix and his closest cronies. Besides them they are regular people, with flaws, but often better than some of the Garden's "heroes" let us say.

I should have a short chapter a day, long chapters a week until September or even October, so it won't end soon. _**Review!**_

The dragon landed. The beast's scintillating scales shone, sparkling in the sun. The noble beasts wings were the hue of that which it had most recently seen. Blood. Thorn growled at the soldiers as Murtagh stumbled off. He suffered from a deep wound in his side and blood ran freely down his armour. His helmet, fragments of which were embedded in his skull, was smashed into pieces, its shining surface only covering his ears. His cuirass was damaged, its steel cracked and shattered.

The Rider reached the doctors tent before collapsing on the ground. His broken body terrified the guards and they dragged him inside. Blood leaked from his mouth, cascading onto the ground. The doctor hurried over and inspected the wound. He looked up, crying openly, and shook his head. He patched the wound as best he could. In seconds, however, the man they had grown to respect passed away into the next world. The doctor stammered,"Tell his friends. Thorn, Lachange, that landholder from Teirm, anyone from the Varden. Call a truce. Give us time for a proper burial."

Meanwhile...

Canchain was a prisoner of the Varden. He also was terrified. He was stuck in a dark room without any food or water. He was injured and no one had treated him. In the Empire even if you were torured to reveal information at least they would try to keep you alive. He was a drafted soldier, not an officer. He knew nothing. Why would they do this to him? _Why?_

He moaned. The monster, the one they call Saphira, had seen him as he fled the battle. His officer had fought to the last, but he had ordered his men to run. He was a good officer, strict at times, but always kind if you didn't kill anyone or steal anything. Once a man had run off in the midst of battle. After he was captured the captain let him live. He was a good man that way, being harsh(the man was flogged), but always caring(no hangings for anything but murder) and he never discarded his troops advice. He wished he had lived.

There was laughter and the scent of mulled wine from the entrance. Canchain looked at the door expectantly, thanking his captors. Then the one with the wine walked in, and he was terrified. It was the Rider and his cousin. One carried a sledgehammer, the other a burning brazier, a metal dagger, mulled wine, and a sealed flask. In the flask was a blackish liquid that was half empty. They didn't come to help him, that was sure, unless they were carrying items for some proper doctors. He had a sinking feeling. Nobody had followed them in.

"What's wrong? Dragon got your tongue? I hope not, because that would ruin half the fun."

"Please, what are you doing? NO, NO, NOOOOOO! AAAAAAAAARGH!"

The cousin, Roran, drew back the sledgehammer for another blow. The first one had shattered the collarbone. Meanwhile the Rider buried the blade in the coals of the fire.

"Who are you?"

"AAAARGH!"

"So you won't talk, eh?"

The Rider grabbed the sledgehammer and brought it down on his victims knees. He picked the hammer up and applied a liberal coating of the black liquid, then held it against Canchain's bare arm. It burned like acid.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA_"

"Seither oil. Burns like-would you stop screaming, I'm trying to explain how I'm torturing you. Anyway, it burns like hell. Right?"

He removed the sledgehammer.

"Right?" he inquired menacingly.

"Y-y-yes."

"What's your name?"

"Canchain. Please, I'll tell you anything, just don't- AAAAARGH!"

The Rider had emptied the contents of the brazier on Canchain's chest. The burning coals skittered down his body, igniting his skin. Eragon poured the mulled wine on top of his victim. He wanted to drag this out for as long as possible.

After a few hours of unrelenting torture Canchain was begging for death. His body was covered with blood, but all his knife wounds were not bleeding. The heat of the blade had cauterized the wound wherever it had struck. Canchain's chest was a blackened, skinless lump. In the past hour the elf, damn her, had joined in. He had hoped she would stop the torment, but instead she had told them to finish by twelve. Eragon was sheathed in a ring of smoke, but he was smiling. 

In the past several minutes they had started removing non-vital organs. In between screams Canchain wondered why the were doing this. He began to have a horrible, disturbing idea. Maybe they weren't doing this just out of sadism. They had obviously relished his pain, but by now someone would have noticed. This was either authorized or routine. There was only one way to know. He had to fain death. In his current state that would be easy, and he had a certain degree of mental shielding.

The Rider stopped.

"That was easy. Now for the fairth." 

"Fairth?"

"What, you thought I didn't find an excuse for all this? We simply torture him beyond recognition, then we take a fiarth, a magical portrait, you could say, and claim that this is what the Empire does to those who, let us say, get lucky on a treasure hunt, and round up volunteers. Speaking of volunteers, why did you sign up. Honestly, it was fun. What about you?"

"Same, mostly. What did you expect?"

"Dunno. Arya was busy "getting ready" and Nausada had to see some stupid petition, and besides, no other person here swings a sledgehammer harder than us two, so I thought you might have been pressured in."

Canchain was horrified. They had done this simply to frame his friends and family.

"By the way, if you don't want to feel pain that dwarfs everything you just experienced _**put together**_ I would stay still, you cur."

He took the fairth, then killed Canchain. Problem solved.


	4. But the Joy was Sorrow

But the Joy Was Too Sad

To the third reviewer, Solangedrama. Why does no one else besides Armpit and Solangedrama review? Please, I will even accept anonymous flames. Somebody, help.

Now for my responses.

Solangedrama:Thank you. I was ill and had an Algebra final(I am in advanced mathematics. Advanced Algebra in sixth grade. YAY!) and hence I had little time. In the 30 minutes I had I plotted out a torture seen with _**hidden motives**_(I know. It amazes me too.) and wrote the chapter. In under an hour all told. Oh, and no, this will not switch ratings and become an M. However, I might push the limits, so who knows.

Criticism is good. Criticize me. Sometimes. Not too much though, and if you can't believe your character is not alive don't flame me. Other than that constructive criticism is absolutely brilliant. I encourage it.

Moving on, yes, Eragon is portrayed as corrupt, evil, and as an alcoholic. And I don't intend to change a thing. HA HA HA HA (hacking cough) ha.

Sorry for how slow I am going. It requires a little spare time. Sorry. I should have three hours a day past the twenty third of June, 2011, though, so my speed will improve to possibly two or three chapters a day. I am sorry for the delays. I just had my finals and three projects, so I was a little busy. Forgive me, sensei.(cries uncontrollably and is beaten up by a thick-eyebrowed weird guy with shiny teeth). A dedication to whomever guesses the reference in a **substantive review**.

Yes, Arya and Eragon do both drink. A lot. So no, this may occasionally seem OOC. That is deliberate. So don't whine,"But Murtagh was fwiends wif Ewagwon. Waaaaaaaaaaaa!" I don't care. And I did kill Murtagh off. Deal with it.

The overcast sky poured a deluge that seemed ready to drown the camp. The tents were sagging under the tremendous burden they were holding despite that very burdens refusal to weigh upon them long. Eragon walked out, careful not to wake anyone. Saphira waited outside the tent, humming a low c-flat. The dragon trilled the equivalent of an alarm clock at about eight. She had not done so yet.

Eragon clutched his head. Pain flared up whenever he stepped forwards, leading to him mentally requesting Saphira's help.

"_Take me back to my tent._" 

"_Don't get so drunk next time. Enjoy it."_

"_The torture or the drinking?"_

"_Both, little one."_

"_Like you had any-"_

"_Eragon, shut up."_

"_But I-"  
><em>

_"I said shut up, Eragon."_

"_Fine."_

The magnificent beast began to land. The dragon's wings flapped slowly and majestically, lowering the creature to the ground. Eragon dismounted and stumbled towards the tent. As he entered he ran into a runner.

"Sir, Nausada has called a council to discuss the events that occurred yesterday."

"I'm coming, I'm coming."

Nausada paced. Her officers assembled, but they were slow in the morning. She looked around and smiled. One of those jackals on the Council had tried to out-politic her. That was a very, very bad decision. His body would show up in a pile of manure soon enough. The assassin had struck him down successfully, leaving her enemy in the next world. 

Eragon shuffled in, clutching his head. The stupid fool had been so drunk that he had not even realized that it was two A.M. when he started to buy the brandy. He had stayed in the bar all night. Fool. Nausada put her usual expression, hiding her disgust at these annoying, but necessary pawns.

It had been easy to talk Eragon and Roran into torturing that soldier. She had simply fed him and Roran the story that he had helped destroy Carvahall and had guarded Durza as he tortured Arya. After whipping up some rage she had gotten them to do the job well, and the problem was solved. Now she had two new issues to deal with. Shadows and lies. Both so similar to what she had to deal with today.

She stood.

"Greetings, everyone. Today there are a few issues that we must deal with. Namely, our recruitment strategies and a few new ideas.

First off, we have recently come across a masterful fairth taken b our most noble Rider of a prisoner captured by one of the innumerable earls of the Empire for no reason other than sadistic enjoyment. We believe that mass distribution of this will assist our recruiters in their noble efforts. The average peasant is currently on the borderline between the Varden and the Empire, and we could always do with more sword fodder. Speaking of sword fodder, would King Orrin please present his report?"

"Naturally, naturally. At long last my researches have found a practical use. I was combining saltpeter and a few other elements when I chanced upon something quite explosive. And by explosive I mean literally explosive. It sent me flying across my lab. However, my records were reconstructible and soon I had found that this concoction could be used to, shall I say disconcert, the Empire. If we could put it in a casket and then have one of the DuVrangr Grata detonate it from a distance,rather than up close, we could more easily conquer the cities of Galbatorix. Lob it over via trebuchet, than any magician could detonate the casket. Other possibilities include burying, dragon-dropping, and even filling trenches with this powder. Think of the opportunity!"

"Thank you. Now, does anyone have any comments on either this or the recruitment plan?"

"One question."inquired Jörmundur, "Won't peasants be scared of the terrible vengeance their master will enact upon them if they disobey **even more** if we show them this? Because I know I would be."

Nausada replied swiftly.

"Yes, but you are smar enough to think of that. They are not. Any others?" 

"_I will __**not **__carry large caskets of __**explosive powder!**__" _growled Saphira angrily, shocking everyone.

"Very well, we won't use that particular tactic. Now for the next part of our discussion. We need to decide on the administrative divisions of the territory currently conquered. First off, we have to decide on the division of the captured territories and other benefits among our allies. Feinster should be..." 

After several hours the meeting broke up, to be concluded the next day. It was interesting enough, but Eragon knew that tomorrow would be fascinating. He could barely wait, he thought as he began to slumber peacefully.


	5. A Shorty or When Murder is to Spare

When Murder is to Spare

Or Chapter Five

To , the 5th reviewer.

Authors note:Well, here it is. The moment you have all been waiting for. The Varden assassins and intelligence service. Call them the Spetznaz, The Ancient Crazies, or the- you'll find out in the chapter. Oh, come on, you didn't think that the Black Hand was the only group of trained killers, did you?

Now for the reviews.

:Well, of course they are slightly out of character. This is supposed to be through the eyes of a more pro-Empire observer. Long live the Broddering Kingdom!

Restrained Freedom:No, they play golf. With dismembered magicians heads. And the team is a little crazy about the methods for obtaining said heads. Anyway, good to know you find this entertaining. And yes, I killed Murtagh. MUAHAHAHAHA!

This starts as a series of flashbacks.

The target walked forwards. It was a dark, rainy night and the target was undoubtedly intending to hurry home. The rain pured down, obscuring everything beyond the street corner with a wall of water. The clouds stubbornly refused to end the deluge, but it would not interfere overmuch with the operation.

The assassin leapt. His blade was drawn as he plummeted down at his enemy. The dragon would be unable to help its rider in the narrow alley, and no eldunarya were present. The assassin contemplated many things during the wait. In those twelve seconds before you kill the target a lot of thinking can be done.

He struck. His blade was long, massively long. It was sharp, but not unduly so, and was dulled with soot to stop it from shining. Murtagh Morzanson blocked the first swing with his knuckle. It was painful, but it worked. Seconds later the would-be assassin was lying broken against the wall.

Murtagh was walking along the battlements. Beside him the work crews labored at their tasks. They carried the stones across the walkway occasionally, so when one walked by he was not alarmed. Suddenly a stone smacked him in the head. He hurtled off the battlements, heading towards the hard, flat ground below. Thorn caught him, saving his life.

Then that last time. He had been hurrying down the road when he felt an impact. It had happened so fast. He had turned and there was a man with a knife. Murtagh had beheaded him but the knife was poisoned.

That was the end. He was not killed by a hero in single combat. He was knifed in the back. A fitting end, Murtagh thought as he collapsed.

AN:Yes it was short, but I wanted to clear up Murtagh's death.


	6. When a Hero is a Villain

While A Villain is a Hero, the Hero is a Villain

My usual author's note: Howdy there folks! (No, I am not a Texan) It's me,your annoying, idiotic writer who enjoys insulting you pigheaded-em, I mean, uh, enjoys addressing his esteemed readers.

_**Read. Review. Read. Review. Read. Review. Read. Review. Read. Review. Read. Review. Read. Review. Read. Review. Read. Review. Read. Review. Read. Review. Read. Review. Read. Review. Read. Review. Read. Review. Read. Review. Read. Review. Read. Review. Read. Review. Read. Review. Read. Review. Read. Review. Read. Review. Read. Review.**_

Solangedrama:Your review has disappeared, but anyway, thanks. And if you think about it, this was a hero's death, just not the normal kind. No one could hope to best him fairly so they sent... well, you'll see. He has no reason to be ashamed, to say the least. Read on and be surprised. Oh, and here is a question. Should I add a character for comic relief, or should I leave humour to my notes?

Armpit:Yeah, I know that area of New York. Don't live their, but some parts look like a leprechaun's backyard. And how dare you not criticize me? DIE!

Eragon awoke. His dragon's, Saphira's, massive bulk had fallen onto the tent. The canvas looked like a plaster wall with some form of spiky blue pest living in it. Eragon chuckled slightly, then began to leave. He turned and blinked several times before screaming. Saphira was lying on the ground, trussed like a prisoner. Blodgharm chuckled nervously and explained.

"Sorry, but she was a tad drunk. Kept trying to burn the tent down."

"OK then, that doesn't creep me out or anything. Can you untie-"

'That, my friend, is exactly the problem."

"Fix it by the time I get back."

"Understood."

Nausada summoned all her advisors to her, in addition to all those in powerful positions. The Rider, Eragon, arrived first. A runner from the Empire had been sighted and was on his way to the tent. Nausada sighed. She hated being surrounded by fools such as these.

After all were assembled the runner arrived.

"Lady Nausada, I bring a missive from the Lordly and all-powerful King Galbatorix. No that I bear thee no wish of ill will nor resentment."

"We gathered as much. Go on."

"We would request a three day truce for the burial of the high and mighty Murtagh Morzanson, Rider and warrior, brother of Eragon Morzansson, son of Selena, and disciiple of Galbatorix. Any and all representatives of the Varden are welcome at this solemn occasion, though any that disobey a simple code of honour will be brought back to you in chains."

Nausada made an almost imperceptible nod to Eragon, who smiled and all but started. Nausada made a short speech.

"You speak to us of honour? Very well, but you will have Eragon Bromsson attend the funeral. Have a good day."

Eragon then sprinted the 3.5988243543563235728996923 miles to his tent, idly noting the difference in colouration of two Urgals horns. His hand swept to Brinsingr, and he again grinned like a fool. A beggar wailed piteously for just enough money to feed his family. Eragon ignored him.

The poor beggar then made the mistake of gripping Eragon's arm. There were stupider things to do, such as do a swan dive into a volcano, but few would be this utterly asinine. Eragon twirled and kicked the beggar against the encampment's wall. A blade appeared in the Rider's hand, and quickly acceleratedinto the beggar's, Yervack Nolansson's, arm and moved upwards. A horrendous scream pierced the morning air. The beggar, well, begged for mercy. It was not to be, alas. With a sickening crunch the weapon spun into the other arm and clove through bone and sinew as easily as the butter it had cut the day before. Eragon then, in an astonishing and appalling display of savagery and ruthlessness, drove the knife through the man's eye socket while kicking him so hard that Yervack flew straight into one of the stakes so carefully planted the day before. With an artist's touch Eragon rearranged the body and stake to make a better picture, then took a fairth. Stuck Man With An Apple, he entitled it, and added his usual artistic blur.

Memnon Yelensson gasped. He had jogged the whole way back from the Varden encampment. His arms and legs could barely move, but still he dragged himself to the general and delivered his report.

"Sir, we have a deal. Eragon, the Rider, will accompany a detachment to the funeral."

"Good. Now, we need to prepare the funeral games, and we need to decide if this Eragon may participate. I will organize them. Also, you must inform the men that they are not to assault the Rider under any circumstances without orders from the top. If they are attacked they may respond with nonlethal force."

"Understood." 

AN:Yes this is a double cross. Sorry. I had trouble getting on a computer before 8:37 PM today.


	7. And the Tragedy Was A Farce

And the Tragedy Was A Farce

A/N: Hello everyone. I am in a rather subdued mood due to several deaths, and will not really be able to write a very happy chapter. I also am pressed for time. Review. Also, I need a beta. Volunteers would be great.

The rain poured down, drenching the already sodden plain and adding to the sombre and depressing air of the Burning Plains. The mourners were all dressed in black formal suits, white in the case of a few ladies of status, except for two. The first was Eragon. He wore a bright yellow, orange, purple, and blue tunic and turquoise pants. There was another, however. He wore a pitch-black robe, a thigh lank jacket-like over robe, a pair of black and white striped trousers, high black socks, and strange black sandals. Unlike all the others, he wore a sword. Or, rather, wore two and carried one. The two he carried were long, curved swords that were positioned by his side for the shorter and across his back for the longer. The man had a head of blackish-crimson hair that cascaded down to the middle of his neck. His skin was unnaturally pale and his eyes were all pupil but for a thin red iris. He carried in his hand Zar'oc, Misery, and he looked that indeed.

The doctor who had found Murtagh dead walked twenty feet behind Galbatorix. Without warning the strange man walked up to him and drove Zar'oc blade through the doctor's chest. The doctor smiled and fell. All turned towards the man, who strode to Galbatorix. His sword still dripped with blood, but Galbatorix nodded. The man turned and walked over to a vent that shot burning, sulfurous fumes and signaled the coffin bearers. He took the coffin, somehow managing the weight of the lead-lined casket with ease. He strode towards the geyser and yelled, with a curious accent,"Why? Why did our hero die? Why did the one who, time after time after time, saved all of us, fall? Was it because he met the heroic Rider on the open field of battle? NO! Instead he was struck down by an assassin's poisoned blade. Not only did they feel that they could not best him, they couldn't even ambush him at night with three men, trained killers all, who wielded poisoned blades. No, instead they had to stab him in the back on a day when none were to fight, on Yule-day itself! They never could best him. He was a great Rider, a great man, and a great friend. None could hope to best him in battle, in cards(Eragon thought he heard an except me, but was unsure) in conversation, in life itself, in anything but thievery and deceit. And what they did was the same as what any thief does. They stole from him, stole his life, left his body broken in the dust, unable to move. And he slew them, and saved his dragon by warning Thorn. Thorn is saved by this man's sacrifice, as Murtagh saved him from twelve other assassins when he might have saved himself. They gave him a true hero's death, the death of one who would always survive whatever they did fairly. I will not honour what they did. Never."

A tear slid down the mans cheek. However, his eyes remained steely and cold as he tossed the coffin into the vent. It was followed by the sword. The two priceless parcels were followed by an even more astonishing act. The being unbuckled its swords and a few rings and minor trinkets. He then dove backwards into the flame. It exploded upwards, the vent belching burning gas. The man smiled, and Eragon stopped doing the happy dance and gasped. The man seemed to disappear. He had seen something like this before. It had been when Murtagh had shot the Shade, Durza, in the head.


	8. Not a Pretty Picture

A/N: Well, I bet y'all thought I had given up, eh? Thought that good old Atra was gone for good. It wasn't, you bulging-nosed orangutans. Anyway, as usual, I expect to be brutally criticized. Otherwise I will attack you. With a power saw. In your sleep. While I'm fantasizing, I'd really like ten million dollars.

Anyway, here goes nothing.

"You don't find this the least bit suspicious?"

"Why should I? Last time it only lasted five minutes."

"Luck is luck. And luck doesn't make it's mind up to help you until after a sword removes your stomach wall or splatters whatever remains of your body against a wall after they summon maggots that eat you from the inside out."

"Where is that from?"

"Zaleriaous's A History of the Daemonspawn. A bit religious, perhaps, but relatively accurate when it comes to various atrocities."

"Do you have a copy with you? I need to catch up, now that there's another one."

"Nausada, you know I didn't bring many books. Ask Arya, or Blodgharm, or someone. While your asking, beg them to teach you the ancient language. Then you might be able to read the book."

"Very well, Eragon. Now, for a rather less, or perhaps more depending on your response, pressing matter. I understand that, at least from my perspective, your personal life is none of my business. You could be engaged in twenty orgies a day, and I wouldn't care. However, Islanzadi was quite insistent, so I must ask. Are you and Arya currently lovers?"

"I would rather not go into that, currently. Must you answer?"

"If she remains Queen, she will withdraw if her demands are not met."

"Ah. I can solve our problem. Give me five days, one of the latest of our little... experiment, and a poison dagger."

"No. That would destabilize everything."

"Then I have a response. Not anymore."

"What do you mean? Did... oh, Eragon, what happened?"

"That is personal. I would rather not go into it." 

"If you need, she could be reassigned to-"

"No. I'll be going, now."

"Wait! Eragon, come back! You need to review the latest test runs! Oh fuck it. You, servant. Cancel all appointments today and tomorrow morning, and fetch a gallon of whiskey."

Eragon ran, frowning, back to his tent. He stepped in, drew the flap across the entrance, and swore. Tomorrow was going to be a long, hard day. On the other hand, he had no reason to face it with a clear head. His hand reached out to a bottle. There was a loud thud, a short drop, and he knew no more.

A/N So, how was it? HAH! Very delayed April Fools, people. There **is** more.

Eragon sat chained to a wall. He had been chained to a wall before, of course. It was normal in his line of work, of course, to spend long periods in captivity. However, most dungeons he had been chained up in were rather worse than this, so he assumed that, for once, they knew what they were doing. As a general rule, the nastiness of the dungeon is equal to how easy it is to break out. Crumbling walls and diseased rats are all well and good, but they won't really stop a Rider. On the other hand, solid steel panels and about twenty guards,which this prison had, are quite effective.

He started to pull on the chain. It was fused into the wall at the end, no peg being needed. However, it was at this moment the door opened and a man walked in. Eragon looked up at him and swore. It was going to be a long, hard day.

It's a 3 week TIMESKIP! BUM BADADA BADA IT"S A TIMESKIP!

Eragon looked around at his captors with bloodied eyes. In the ten hours of torment he had received he had come to appreciate a whole new class of agony, but still couldn't tell why this was happening. His body was covered in long scratches, and his skin was peeling off in places. But secretly, he was happy. It wasn't easy to take the fragments of metal left in his body after the torture and make a short knife. But now, it would all be worth it.


End file.
